


These Boundaries Crossed

by Distracted



Category: Leverage
Genre: Eliot Spencer Whump, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Eliot Spencer, Hurt/Comfort, Team Bonding, Team as Family, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29491929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Distracted/pseuds/Distracted
Summary: It's Eliot's job to protect the team, and he takes that very seriously. In return, the team are there to take care of him in the aftermath.Eliot is badly injured covering the team's escape. What happens when a misunderstanding crossed with a whole lot of guilt gets in the way? Can they put the broken pieces back together?
Comments: 51
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Today on fics that weren't meant to be chapter fics but stubbornly insisted...
> 
> Now I've figured that out, I'm aiming to have this done by the end of the week. Hope you enjoy it!

These Boundaries Crossed 

Chapter One

_ Just fucking get up,  _ he thinks, and shoves at the rough ground with his good arm, overworked muscles screaming with the strain, a quiver running through his forearm before the burst of strength leaves him. His already bruised cheek smacks into the ground again, making his head ring with pain. His mouth tastes of burned sugar, sour with exhaustion, and he licks his dry lips, longing for a cool drink of water. There’s a knife buried to its hilt in his left thigh, the tip of the blade grating against bone, and the sensation makes him want to puke. Every time he moves, it engulfs him in pain, like he’s being sandblasted, dipped in acid, dragged behind a speeding truck going down the road. 

The team are calling his name through the earbud, and he can hear the panic in their voices, but he can't sort out the words past the ringing in his ears. It sparks something in him, a last surge of adrenaline that gets him to one knee, bad leg stretched out behind him, both fists on the ground as he tries to get his feet under him. The team is safe; he made damn sure of that, and he’s hoping they don’t do anything stupid like come back into the compound for him. His life for their freedom is a sacrifice he’ll make willingly, even if he wishes it didn’t have to hurt so fucking much on the way down. He grinds his teeth, the lactic ache at his temple building until it forces his lips apart, a breath easing out of him that sounds more like a sob. 

Blood trickles from the cuts on his cheek, his scalp, the gash on his temple, pattering onto the concrete like soft summer rain. His arms and shoulders and back are gashed too, in more places than he can count. Knife work is down and dirty, and he's paying that price right now, though falling through a plate-glass window hadn't done him any favours, either. There’s a river of blood winding down his forearm in a sticky trail from a nasty slice across his bicep. He can hear the strain in his own breathing, the rasp of each spent breath catching in his throat. 

It’d be so easy to give in, to lie down and accept his fate, but he’s never managed that before and he doesn’t want to start now, but he’s not sure he has any say in the matter. He’s pushed his body too far, past the point of no return and his tank is empty, reserves totally depleted, well drained dry. He’s  _ done, _ and he knows if he had the energy, the knowledge would devastate him. It’s one tiny kindness, among the terror, the exhaustion, the  _ fucking relentless _ pain, that he's too far gone to mourn the loss. Maybe this is redemption, a small repayment on all the pain he caused. There's a muddied kind of grace in there somewhere, that he found his way to this spot, ended up in the exact place where he could best protect his people. He knows he’s damned, has reached a resigned sort of equilibrium with the idea that his soul and his hands are so tarnished they’ll never be clean again. It’s not something he thinks about much or often, but his current situation is bringing it to mind with remarkable ease. 

Running footsteps draw near to him and he blinks stinging sweat from his eyes, pressing his forehead against his arm.  _ Just make it quick,  _ he thinks and lets his eyes close, trying to ignore the shake that is slowly spreading through his body.  _ Getting shocky,  _ he thinks, and there’s a kind of relief in that, taking any opinion he has out of the equation. Mind over matter only gets you so far when the flesh starts to fail and God knows, he’s punished his body more than enough for one lifetime. 

“Eliot!” Hardison calls, and at first he thinks it’s through the earbud, until the hacker’s hands land on his shoulders and a cascade of fireworks explode under his touch. “We got you man,” Hardison says, casting an appalled eye over the other man. There’s nowhere that isn’t cut or bruised or battered. The pale blue shirt he’s wearing is scarlet in places with fresh blood. Lifting him is going to hurt, and yet they have no choice. 

Nate meets his eyes over Eliot’s back and nods, taking his arm. Hardison does the same, feeling Eliot flinch and having to force himself not to let go. “I’m sorry,” he says, over and over, running the words together. “Come on, man, let’s get you out of here.”

They lift at the same time, drawing Eliot to his feet and he sags between them, head tipped forward, the only sign he’s still with them the harsh rasp of exhausted breaths. His eyes are open, pupils blown wide, and the sight makes something clench tight in Hardison’s gut. 

Eliot chokes on a moan as they lift him. It feels like he’s being torn apart, and he clamps his lips together, jaw burning, until he’s upright. The movement sends galaxies, constellations of stars spinning through his head and by the time they clear, they’re moving like some crippled animal towards the van. It's far enough that he drifts, gives in to the darkness, lets it sweep him away from the agony engulfing his battered body. 

Parker is waiting at the van door, the big medical bag already open. They lay him down, the dim light doing nothing at all to hide the chalky cast to his skin, the blood that has saturated his shirt and jeans, practically gluing the fabric to his skin. Hardison slams the door behind them and Sophie takes off, threading the van into traffic, putting distance between them and the compound they’ve just raided.

Nate presses his fingers to the pulse point under Eliot's jaw, sucking in an appalled breath at the skittering, unsteady pulse under his touch. He wordlessly takes the trauma shears Parker offers and runs then through the saturated fabric until Eliot’s shirt and jeans are in tatters on the van floor. It feels like a massive intrusion of the other man's privacy but they have no choice. For a second, he doesn't know where to start then realises it doesn't matter, grabbing gauze and pressing it against the cuts on Eliot's chest. He's lax under Nate's hands, cheek resting against Parker's knee as she unpacks IV supplies, and there's something utterly horrifying about his stillness. Nate presses his fingers to Eliot's throat again, unable to resist, because he's never seen the other man so motionless. His eyes are closed, lashes dark against the pallor of his skin. 

Hardison grabs a couple of bandage rolls and puts them on either side of the knife to stabilize it, winding a bandage around Eliot's leg to hold the whole thing in place. Just the sight of the blade vanishing into the other man's bruised and bloody flesh makes him want to hurl. 

They roll Eliot, carefully, onto his side and Nate has to close his eyes for a second to gather his composure, because the other man’s back is covered in blood, seeping from cuts to his shoulders, his flank. There’s a nasty one across the base of his spine that makes Nate hurt just looking at it. He dresses them all, easing Eliot onto his back again, hoping the pressure will do something to stop the bleeding.

Hardison winds a bandage around the deep gash across the other man's bicep. "He needs to go to the hospital!" he says, even as he tapes a dressing to the sluggishly bleeding cut on Eliot's temple. 

_ I know,  _ Nate thinks, heart heavy, but they can't risk it. If it was just a matter of avoiding arrest, he'd take that risk, but the con they've just pulled had been bigger than that, involved some very bad people who think torture is a fun pastime, that beating the people who cross them to death is acceptable, and as much as it hurts him, he has the rest of his team to think about too. "We can't risk it," he says, and hates himself for the words. 

"Nate-" Hardison starts, fingers smoothing tape over a nasty slice across the other man's hip. "Then we need Quinn."

"Okay," Nate says and Hardison nods once, swiping his bloody hands on his trousers before sending a coded text, hoping the other hitter is close by, because he's also a damn good medic and Eliot needs all the help he can get. Eliot has taught them what he can, but it takes time to learn, and they're all smart enough to know that this is outside their scope of experience. 

Parker swipes Eliot's arm with an alcohol pad, sucking in a breath before she probes for a vein, because while he taught them all how to start an IV, it's the first times she's ever had to do it for real, in an emergency, and there's nerves fluttering in her gut. The cannula slides home and she slips the needle free, taping everything in place, handing a bag of saline from the roof. She sits back down, running her fingers through his hair, biting her lip when they come back bloody. "Just hang on, Eliot, we got you," she says softly. 

He tenses, blinking twice, three times before he can get his eyes to stay open. He doesn’t have the energy to hide his emotions and there’s a thin thread of terror running through him. It’s warm in the van, but he’s freezing, cold sweat coating his skin. There are questions that he wants to ask, but he can’t find the words, and he knows all of that must be showing on his face, because Hardison squeezes his hand. 

“No-one is following us, we’re safe,” the hacker says, watching some of the awful tension drain out of Eliot’s face, though he’s still pale, face drawn and lined with pain. “Trust us. We got you.”

Nate shakes out one of the foil emergency blankets, spreading it over Eliot, hoping it'll help to check some of the tremors running through Eliot's body. The van hits a pothole and Eliot moans, hands clenching into fists, teeth clamping down on his lip hard enough to draw blood. 

Hardison takes his hand again, careful of the bruised and split knuckles, wishing he could do more, so he hangs on, willing some of his strength to the hitter, offering him a landline, a tether against the terror and hopes it's enough. 

"Two minutes," Sophie calls from the driver's seat and turns the van onto the last street. They all know about this safe house, tucked away in a leafy part of the city, but they’ve never been. Never had reason to, because Eliot always made damn sure he was the only one getting hurt. Sophie slows, turning towards the driveway, blinking a little when the garage door automatically swings open. The garage is large enough for Lucille, just, and she drives in, feeling a sense of relief as the door closes behind them again, sealing them off from the world. 

Quinn is waiting for them in the garage, and she meets his eyes through the glass, seeing her own worry reflected there. He’s become a sort of unofficial member of the team, helping out on jobs if they need another set of hands and he’s local. Now he looks tense, crossing to the van with long, hurried strides and pulling the door open, taking in the situation inside with one quick sweep of his eyes. 

“Well, fuck,” he says. “Were you followed?” he asks, because if they were, he needs to set up a perimeter, keep them all safe. 

“No,” Sophie says, and it’s a credit to her driving skills that he believes her. 

Hardison shuffles over, wrapping one arm around Parker, making room for Quinn to kneel by Eliot’s side, forcing a smile as the other man blinks at him. “Hey, Eliot,” he says and peels the blanket back to do a quick assessment, gritting his teeth when Eliot flinches under his hands. The dim light is doing nothing to hide how dire the situation is and he knows if they’d been living any other life, the dark haired man would have been in hospital by now. But they’re stuck living the lives they are, and they just have to deal with the consequences as they fall out. 

“Parker, Hardison, he’s going to need blood. Can you handle that?” Quinn says, crisply, because while they’re all damn good at their jobs, they’re also a family and seeing one of their tribe so badly hurt has thrown their normal competence way off. They need something to focus on, a job to do and he can provide at least that. 

“Yeah,” Parker says, some of the fear fading from her gaze. “I can do that.” She touches Eliot’s cheek, blinking back tears as he turns his face into her hand, and climbs carefully to her feet. Hardison follows, squeezing Eliot’s good shoulder before he slips out of the van. 

“Good hunting,” Quinn tells them, and presses the big medical bag into Nate’s hands. “Let’s get him inside.” 


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Sophie holds the bedroom door open and the three men edge through in careful, tiny steps. Eliot hangs between Quinn and Nate, barely conscious, entire body bathed in cold sweat, paler than she's ever seen him. The morphine shot Quinn had given him before they left the van looks like it’s not doing a damn thing to ease the agony that moving must be causing but he’s silent apart from the harsh breaths tearing from his lips. They clear the door and she hurries to strip the bed down to just the sheet, piling the quilt and blankets on the floor. 

They get Eliot down on his right side, propped up with pillows. He's shivering and Quinn flips a blanket over him, frowning at the blue tinge on the other man's lips. _Hope Parker and Hardison hurry with that blood,_ he thinks and gently frees Eliot's arm from the blankets so he can hook up another bag of saline. It's a temporary fix, but it's better than nothing. 

Sophie drops the big med bag and hurries out of the room. Quinn blinks at the sudden departure but doesn't question it; there will be time for that, later, once he's got Eliot more stable. 

"Eliot?" he asks, quietly, not really expecting an answer. 

"Quinn?" Eliot rasps, voice harsh and barely there. He licks his lips, shifting a little because even under the blanket of morphine, everything _hurts_ , pain coming at him from so many directions he has no defence against it. Faint unease nags at him and he sucks in a sharp breath, trying to lever up on one elbow, biting back a groan when the movement lights up every injury like they're being painted on his skin with a branding iron. "Sophie. I gotta get…" There's a thin thread of panic in his voice and he tries again, muscles trembling in his arm as he tries to get up. He grits his teeth against a groan and blinks sweat from his eyes. 

Nate presses one hand against Eliot's shoulder, frowning at just how much the other man is shaking. "Sophie is safe," he says firmly, forcing eye contact. "We all are." 

"Okay," Eliot says on a shaky breath, pupils blown wide, and slumps back into unconsciousness. 

Quinn presses his fingers to Eliot's pulse point, frowning at the racing thrum under his touch. "Find out where Parker and Hardison are with the blood," he says and Nate nods, backing out of the room. 

The still embedded knife isn't the worst wound but Quinn wants to deal with it first, before anything moves the blade. He flips the big medical bag open and lays out supplies, slipping fresh gloves on even though he's already smeared in Eliot's blood, spots of it on his arms and chest. It gives him a strange little ache in his gut, because while it's hardly the first time he's been covered in someone else's blood, this is _Eliot_ , and he's never seen the man so badly injured before. _Something went terribly wrong,_ Quinn thinks, and shoves down his unease at that notion. The team's reputation is known far and wide, and for a reason, because shit never usually goes this far sideways. They're damn good at their jobs, but even the best teams can have an off day. 

Eliot groans as Quinn gets a tourniquet around his thigh, making sure it's nice and tight, because while he's pretty sure the blade is clear of the dark haired man's femoral artery, he's not taking any chances. The blade slips free and he sets it on the bedside table, easing the pressure on the tourniquet and watching anxiously. The wound bleeds, but it's sluggish, not the pulsing spurt of a torn artery and Quinn blows out a harsh breath in relief, packing the wound with sterile gauze and taping a dressing over it. It's too deep to stitch; that would be begging for an infection and that's the last thing Eliot needs. 

Quinn dumps the tourniquet on the floor and moves up to Eliot's head, gently turning his face to the side so he can get a good look at the gash on his temple. His hair is stuck to the clotting blood and Quinn grabs a wipe, cleaning what he can away, wincing at the nasty wound. He puts the first stitch in and feels Eliot flinch under his hand, lip curling as he fights his way back to consciousness. 

"How bad?" Eliot asks, voice hoarse, and Quinn doesn't know if he should be dismayed or impressed that the other man is clear enough to ask. The blue tinge hasn't left his lips and Quinn presses his fingers to Eliot's wrist, barely keeping the frown off his face. 

He hesitates, because he's honestly not sure what to tell Eliot, then sighs and goes with the truth. "Pretty bad."

Eliot shifts, a little, because the morphine is waning and the pain is making it hard to stay still. "Feels like it," he grates out and licks his lips. His mouth tastes like blood; sour copper, and rusty iron, pennies burning on his tongue. "Where's everyone?" he asks, because his last clear memory is of racing to save Sophie after everything went to hell. He swallows, an unexpected ache starting in his chest because he's pretty sure he was the one who let the others down. Pretty sure if he'd just been faster, seen what was going on just a bit quicker, none of what happened would have taken place. _Guess this is how it ends,_ he thinks, _because how can they trust me now, when I let them down?_ The empty spaces in the room where his people would normally have been only backs up that thought and he lets his eyes close, letting the encroaching darkness swallow him, too exhausted and hurting too much to contemplate what his future might look like now the team have left him. 

"They're…" Quinn starts, then stops, realising Eliot is unconscious again. "They're still here, El," he adds softly, "they haven't abandoned you," he finishes, pressing his lips together for a long second before he sighs and puts another stitch in Eliot's temple. It takes eight to close the wound and Quinn tapes a dressing over it before moving onto the next, knowing they're both in for the long haul. "Keep fighting, El," he says, and places the first stitch in the ragged gash on Eliot's arm. "I got ya. Just don't quit on me, you hear?" 


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

The bedroom door creaks open and Quinn turns, rolling his shoulders to ease some of the tension there. He's been hunched over the bed for what feels like hours, though a glance at his watch tells him it's been a shade more than two. He snips off the stitch he was working on and tapes a dressing over the ugly wound on Eliot's back, carefully covering him with the blanket. The dark-haired man is unconscious again, drifting on a wash of morphine and Quinn hopes he stays that way until every cut and gash has been stitched. 

Hardison hesitates in the doorway, a small cooler in his hands. "We got the blood," he says and lets his gaze flick over Eliot, jumping away like he can't bear to look, stuffing his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders. "How's he doing?" he asks, and ducks his head before Quinn can get a good read of his expression. 

"Better than I expected, considering," Quinn says and grabs a fresh suture kit, moving onto the next wound, taking his eyes off Hardison because he can tell the man is uncomfortable, even if he can't quite figure out why. He places another stitch, drawing the ragged edges of the wound together carefully, trying to minimise the scar. He's working on the gash on Eliot's hip and he knows it's going to be a bitch to heal. He has a similar scar and can recall all too well how any movement popped the sutures. 

"Good," Hardison says, fingers tightening around the cooler handle. "I'm gonna go cover our electronic trails," he says, quietly, and sets the cooler down, easing the door closed behind him with one hand, the other scrubbing at his scalp like it hurts. 

Quinn frowns, a prickling sense of unease washing over him. _What the hell is going on?_ _Why can't any of them look at him? Be in the same room as him?_ he thinks as he ties off the stitch and stands, stripping off his bloody gloves as he retrieves the cooler and sets it on the bedside table while he grabs fresh gloves and starts another IV in Eliot's other arm. 

"Hardison?" Eliot breathes, barely conscious, and the emotion in that one word makes Quinn suck in a shaky breath. Even with the pain and the drugs, there's an edge of devastation in Eliot's voice, like he's lost something precious to him and hasn't come close to making his peace with it. 

"He was here," Quinn says, checking the first bag of blood before he hangs it from the tall lamp next to the bed. "He's doing geek stuff," he says, and Eliot blinks, teeth clamping down on his lower lip, anguish flickering over his face before he blinks and it vanishes. 

"Okay," Eliot says, softly, and shifts, drawing his knee up towards his chest. He's on his left side, propped up with pillows under his chest and hips and the pressure on his bad shoulder is starting to hurt. Slow, strange nausea makes his gut churn, there but without any real urgency. It's the trauma and the drugs and the lingering effects of shock and he knows he's lucky he made it this long without puking because even the thought of it makes him want to weep. The exhaustion drags at him like an outgoing tide and he resists with what little energy he has left, bringing one shaking hand to scrub his face. _If they don't want me any more, I need a plan,_ he thinks, ignoring the way it makes his chest burn, _time to find my own jobs again,_ even though he knows realistically he's got weeks to go before he even makes it out of the bed. "Did they say anything?" he asks Quinn, voice rough, part of him wanting the blow to fall, to get it over with, a bigger part wanting to hide, to let himself pretend for just a little longer that the last good thing in his life hasn't imploded around him, just like everything else pure that he'd touched, like he's fucking Typhoid Mary, poisoning everyone around him, even if he can't see it until its way too late. He blinks and a tear trickles down his cheek, sliding into his hair. 

"No," Quinn says, and his voice is husky. "What happened, El?" he asks. 

"I think I fucked everything up," Eliot says, voice fading out as the exhaustion and the drugs pull him under again. 

Part of Quinn wants to go and find Nate, shake a straight answer out of him, find out what the hell went down on the job, but Eliot is still bleeding and he needs to fix that first. There's two blood soaked dressings left on Eliot's back and Quinn peels the first away, sucking in a breath at the wound. It's a clean cut, made by a sharp blade, and it's defensive, though Quinn can't quite figure out why the worst of the damage is concentrated on his friend's back. It bugs him enough that he lets the suture kit drop to the mattress, rounding the bed in quick strides to check Eliot's arms again. There's a couple of shallow slices on his forearms and hands, but the majority of the cuts are on his upper arms and back. Quinn prefers guns to knives, but he's been around the block a bit and the damage just doesn't make sense to him. He pushes it aside for now and heads back to the other side of the bed, cleaning the wound before picking up the suture kit and carefully bringing the edges of the cut together. 

Eliot flinches, moaning, as the needle slips through his skin. His right arm twitches, like he wants to ward Quinn off but doesn't have the strength or coordination. "Fuck," he breathes, the word filled with all the agony coursing through him and it's enough to make Quinn stand, injecting another careful dose of morphine into the IV. 

It's a careful balancing act, keeping the dark-haired man drugged enough to manage his pain but not so far under it affects his breathing and Quinn watches anxiously as the drug takes effect, tipping Eliot back over into unconsciousness. 

Quinn blows out a breath and gets to work, closing both cuts with careful, neat stitches. He's done all he can for now and he stands, shoving the chair back against the wall and hanging a new bag of blood. They both need this over, because Eliot has started to shiver again and Quinn adds another blanket to the bed, biting his lip, before he turns and heads for the door, intending to find Nate and get some answers. 


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four 

"How bad is it?" Nate asks when Quinn emerges from the bedroom an eternity later. He's alone in the living room. He's not sure where Parker is, but Hardison has wedged himself and his laptop into the tiny other bedroom and Sophie is in the kitchen, searching the freezer for the right soup, like that's going to fix anything. 

"Well, I stopped counting at a hundred stitches," Quinn says, and crosses to the whisky bottle on the table, deliberately keeping his back to Nate as he pours a shot and downs it, eyes the bottle and contemplates another. "What the fuck happened to him?" Quinn asks, and there's something in his voice that Nate doesn't catch at first, not until he turns and the anger is plain on his face. 

Quinn's seen it before, bosses who throw their hitters into bad situations, who use them as cannon fodder while they escape and while he hasn't pegged Nate for that type, every stitch he'd put into Eliot's skin had made him wonder if he'd misjudged the man. Made him wonder if he'd hitched himself to the wrong wagon. Made him wonder if he could get Eliot out, if it came to that and if he'd even go, and what they'd do after. 

"We fucked up," Nate says, and the quiet devastation in his voice makes Quinn freeze. "We fucked up and he paid the price." There's a glass at his side, half filled with whiskey and he drains it in a gulp, letting it burn down to his gut. "Our intel was bad…" he starts, breaking off when something smashes in the kitchen. 

Quinn makes it there first, heart in his throat as he steps through the door, half expecting a squad of hitters coming through the window at them. What he sees is almost as bad, just in a very different way. 

Sophie is at the sink, blood pouring from a cut on her hand, staring blankly at the glass smashed into a million pieces on the tile floor at her feet. She's pale, eyes and nose rimmed in red, hair in wild disarray. He's never seen her look so rattled and it's unsettling, because she's the one who always - _always-_ has her shit together. 

Quinn grabs a dish towel and wraps it around her hand, lifting it so the wound is above her heart. "Guess I'm really earning my wages today, huh?" he says, softly, just to see if the words will shift the blank look from her eyes. 

"It's my fault," she says, and then surprises them all by bursting into tears again. "I thought I had the mark… thought he trusted me but he fed us lies and I didn't realise until it was too late!" 

Quinn pats her shoulder, awkwardly, making pointed eye contact with Nate until the other man takes over the comforting. "I'll just go and get some supplies," Quinn says, even though there's a perfectly good first aid kit hanging on the kitchen wall. 

He ducks back into the bedroom, checking on Eliot, relieved to see the colour returning to his lips, relieved that his breathing is slow and steady, that there's no sign of more bleeding or fever yet. 

Eliot stirs as Quinn takes his pulse again, face creasing into a frown as he blinks back to consciousness. He blows out a long, measured breath before easing himself over onto his back, ignoring Quinn as he tries to stop the movement. It feels better than being on his side and he lifts a hand to rub his sore, aching shoulder. There's enough morphine in his system that both he's tolerably comfortable and still feeling faintly sick. 

Quinn is frowning down at him and he dredges up an exhausted smile, knowing he owes the man, big time. "Thank you," he rasps, and shifts again, trying to find a position that doesn't make something hurt. "Hey, man," he starts, voice growing faint as the drugs and blood loss start to pull him under again. "You want a partner, when I'm back on my feet?" the last words are barely audible and Quinn shakes his head, knowing the team needs a discussion, pronto, knowing Eliot is in no shape for it even though he desperately needs to hear it. It's a fucked up situation, made worse by just how willing the other man is to take the blame for everything that goes wrong. Quinn isn't sure how or when that tendency started, thinks maybe it's just how Eliot is built, part of what makes him so damn good at his job. He's willing to take the punishment, even if he wasn't the one who caused the problem in the first place. 

"Your place is here, Eliot," Quinn says. "We can fix this," he finishes softly, adding a silent _I hope_ , in his mind as he grabs what he needs from the big medical bag and heads back to the kitchen, casting one last glance over his shoulder, checking on Eliot one last time, a wave of treacherous, worried fondness washing over him. Any sort of meaningful, long term relationship, even _friendship_ , is damn difficult in their line of work. It's just another reason the team is the outlier, because they came together and stuck together, even when it would have made more sense for them to scatter. The thought of them breaking up now, when they're achieved so much, makes something soft in Quinn's chest ache. 

Sophie is sitting one one of the plain wooden chairs, injured hand caught between both of Nate's, head resting against his chest. Neither of them realise Quinn is there until he clears his throat, feeling like he's intruding on a private moment. 

"I think the bleeding has stopped," Nate says. 

"Good," Quinn answers, slipping a fresh set of gloves on and carefully unwrapping the soaked dish towel. "I hadn't really planned to put stitches in two of you today," he mutters, without thinking, knowing it's the wrong thing to say as soon as the words leave his mouth.

Sophie freezes, blanching, the guilt she's feeling obvious on her face. Her lip quivers and for a second he thinks she's going to cry again but she blinks and sniffs and gets it under control. 

"I'm sorry," Quinn says, gently, and drops his gaze to her hand, finding a nasty gash across her palm. Truth be told, sutures wouldn't be the worst idea but he knows that's never going to fly so he makes do with butterfly bandages, taping a dressing pad over it before adding an ace bandage to hold it all in place. "All done," Quinn says and stands, gathering the trash and dumping it into the bin. "I'm going to go check on Eliot," he says, and walks away, pausing at the door because there are words in his head that he has to say. "Sometimes shit just goes sideways and it's no-one's fault." He pauses, debating how much of this is actually his business, but the image of Eliot in his mind, so battered and broken, won't let him stay silent. "You both need to find a way to get over this guilt complex, because he's blaming himself for everything. He might not let it show very much, but he needs you guys. Even if you can't fix it for yourself, you need to try, for him." He turns and walks away before they can answer, heading back to the bedroom. 

Hardison is waiting outside, expression stricken and Quinn stops, knowing the hacker needs to hear the same speech as he just gave Nate and Sophie. Hardison needs a different approach though, because he's soft in a way Sophie and Nate aren't. Soft in a good way still, though Quinn has serious doubts about how long that will last, given the job he's chosen. 

"You can go in, if you like," Quinn says, resting his shoulder against the wall. "I'm sure he'll be damn glad to see you." 

Hardison frowns, shaking his head, already starting to walk away. "Will he," he says flatly, mouth compressing into a harsh line. "I'm not so sure of that after what happened." 

"So you're angry at Eliot?" Quinn pushes, deliberately goading to get an honest reaction. 

"No!" Hardison replies, "I'm angry at myself. I let him down and I feel guilty as all hell over it. If I'd done a better job, he wouldn't be laying in that bed with a hundred stitches in his skin." He scrubs hand over his face, trying to rub the ache out of his temples. "I don't know how he's ever going to forgive me." 

"Does he know that?" Quinn asks, pushing the door open, one hand on the frame as he leans closer to Hardison. "Because he thinks you're blaming him. Thinks you're all angry with him. None of you have spent more than ten minutes with him since we got him out of the van. He needs you to be there for him." 

"I can't," Hardison says, shaking his head. "He'll never be able to trust me again. I don't even know how he could look at me. It's my job to-" he cuts himself off, scrubbing his hands over his face again. "I'm sorry," he says, "Tell him that, please?" he adds and ducks back into the smaller bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him. 

Quinn stares at it for a long second and thinks, _how the fuck am I going to fix this?_


	5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five 

At first, she thinks Eliot is just sleeping.The room is bathed in shadows, lit only by a single lamp, and the soft light is kind to him. That impression vanishes when she gets close enough to the bed to get a good look at his face. He's flushed, curls sticking to his damp forehead, eyelashes clumpy from the sweat beading on his cheeks. He's flat on his back, one arm curled under the pillows, the other draped protectively across his ribs. The hand she can see is battered, knuckles split, two fingers taped together, both nails black with bruising. Weirdly, out of everything, it’s the sight of his hand that brings tears to her eyes, clogs her throat so she has to swallow hard. There’s a band aid on her own hand, covering a tiny wound; just the night before he’d spent twenty minutes coaxing a splinter out of her palm so gently she’d barely felt it. 

"Eliot?" she says softly, knowing that normally, just her presence at his bedside would have woken him. The fact it doesn't sends a stab of fear through her, the action driving home just how badly injured he is in a way she can't ignore. "Eliot?" she says again, ignoring the sourness in her stomach as the pained, hurt noises he'd made through the earbuds comes back to her.  _ I tried. Nate wouldn't let me come back,  _ she thinks,  _ I wanted to, but he stopped me.  _

He still doesn't stir, so she presses her fingers to the back of his hand,  _ gently,  _ no poking this time because she doesn't want to cause him any more pain. He's burning up, and she gulps, knowing a fever is the last thing he needs. 

Quinn is napping in the easy chair, socked feet resting on the edge of the bed, head thrown back to expose the stubbled line of his throat. She studies him, because she  _ knows  _ Eliot, knows how best to wake him without scaring him so his reactions take over, but while they've worked a few jobs with Quinn, this is the first time she's seen him sleeping and she's not sure how to approach the issue. 

"Quinn!" she says firmly, in the end, keeping well back and he jerks so hard his feet thump to the floor. 

He squints at her, rubbing his face, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Parker?" he says, and glances at his watch. 3:40am. He's been asleep for less than an hour and there's a nagging headache spreading from the base of his skull and his mouth feels like something small crawled inside and died. There’s a bottle of water on the floor next to the chair and he picks it up, downing half of it. 

"He's burning up," Parker says unhappily, wrapping her arms around herself to make herself small. Her hair is loose, falling into her face, but it can’t hide how red her eyes are from crying. 

"Fuck!" Quinn scrambles to his feet, and leans over the bed, drawing the blankets back. The room is lit by a single lamp and it's too dark to tell anything. "Get the light," Quinn asks, rummaging in the big medical bag for the thermometer and slipping it into Eliot's ear. 

The other man jerks at the intrusion, eyes fluttering open in evident confusion. He shudders, once, hard, a pained breath hissing between his teeth. "Quinn?" he asks unevenly, voice hoarse. 

"How do you feel?" Quinn asks, even though the answer is self-evident. The thermometer beeps and Quinn checks it.  _ 102.5,  _ which isn't great but isn't as high as he'd feared.  _ Still higher than it should be,  _ he thinks, and wonders what other antibiotics they have, because Eliot’s already had two doses of the broad spectrum one from the big medical bag and it doesn’t seem to be helping much. 

“Like I got the crap kicked out of me,” Eliot says, wishing he had the energy, the brain power to keep his usual wall up, because he feels stripped raw, vulnerable in all the ways he hates, but between the pain and the malaise and the exhaustion, he simply doesn’t have it in him. “It’s the leg, isn’t it?” he asks, rolling his head to the side so he can meet Quinn’s eyes. 

Quinn nods, once. “Yeah, probably.” Stab wounds are a bitch for exactly this reason. He’d cleaned it as well as he could, outside of an operating room, but there’s always the chance something got left behind in the wound, some speck of dirt, a thread from Eliot's jeans and it means they’re going to have to go through the whole process again. 

“Well, fuck,” Eliot breathes, feeling his pulse pick up, because he’s absolutely not looking forward to what’s about to happen. The wound in his leg hurts, but it’s a quiet, manageable throb. Cleaning and rebandaging it is going to change that, and for one of the first times in his adult life, he feels like crying. Feels like giving in to the burning ache in his chest and sobbing, like he hasn’t done for a long time, not since he did his last job for Damien Moreau and realised just how bloodstained and tattered and worn thin his soul had become. The situation isn’t the same, not even close, but he feels used up in the same damn way. It’s all too much, and he lets his eyes close, turning his face into the pillow, a ragged, threadbare sigh tearing out of him. 

“I’m sorry, bud,” Quinn says and heads towards the en suite to wash his hands, giving Eliot time to gather his composure. 

"What can I do to help?" Parker asks, voice hesitant, because all she can think about is Nate's hand, closing gently but firmly around her wrist, stopping her bolting back into the compound, about the _hurt little_ _noises_ filtering through the earbud while Eliot fought and all she could do was listen. 

"Nothin', " he murmurs, voice a shade harsher than he means it to be but he's not fully in control of his body and it's a terrifying sensation. The burning ache in his chest has settled to an ember, smouldering, not quite out, but not likely to burn him alive, either. He blinks and has to force his eyes open again, because each eyelid suddenly weighs a million pounds and all he wants to do is sleep, escape the pain and the guilt for a little while. 

"Oh," she says, her voice small and soft, fingers digging into her arms. Well, I guess he's still mad at me, after all, she thinks and bites her lip, blinking hard, because her eyes are already sore from crying and she doesn't want to do it anymore. 

Quinn comes back from the bathroom just in time to see her slip out of the door, as silent as a ghost and almost calls her back, only stopping the words when he gets a good look at Eliot and realises they have bigger problems than a few hurt feelings right now. 

"You ready, bud?" Quinn asks, grabbing supplies from the medical bag. It's getting low, and he knows he's going to have to grab more from the other room, but that can wait until morning. 

"You should probably warn them," Eliot says, unevenly, because morphine can only do so much and as much as he tries to ignore it, he's only human. Everyone breaks eventually and he feels like he's inching ever closer to that point, where he can't hold any more pain inside. He shivers and Quinn flips the blankets back over him. 

"Okay," Quinn says, and crosses to the door in a few long strides, the pauses, because he has no idea where everyone is, and though the place is small, he doesn't really feel searching every single room. There's a light on in the living room and he heads there, finding Nate slumped on the couch, Sophie curled up next to him, fast asleep. 

Nate frowns, worry pinching his eyebrows together. "How is he?" he asks, softly, fingers tracing a gentle pattern on Sophie’s arm. There’s a full glass and a half empty bottle of whiskey at his side, but his eyes are clear and steady when they meet Quinn’s. 

Quinn rubs his hands over his face. "Not brilliant. He's running a fever and I need to clean and repack the wound in his leg." He pauses, trying to figure out the best way to say it without scaring Nate half to death. "It might get a little rough to hear," he says, after a long moment. 

"Then give him more drugs!" Hardison snaps from the doorway. "Look at you two, all macho… we have morphine, give it to him!" 

"I will," Quinn says, forcing his irritation down, because he knows the words are born of fear and worry, not true anger. "But I can only give him so much without compromising his breathing and it might not be enough." 

Hardison presses his lips together and nods, silently, turning back towards the bedroom where Parker is waiting. 

Quinn takes a deep breath and does the same, heading back to Eliot, dreading what he has to do. 


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Eliot watches Quinn gather the various supplies that he needs and tries to relax, keeping his breathing as slow and even as he can. It’s hard, because he can’t do anything about the chills that are wracking his body like the foreshocks before the big quake hits, setting off explosions of pain in their wake. It’s depleting what little energy he has left, and he wishes the darkness that keeps spotting his vision would finally claim him, sweep him away, but he’s not that lucky, because it’s not the kind of pain that would make him pass out. There’s plenty of it, there’s no doubt about that, but it’s slow, insistent, spreading through his blood and his bones, like it wants to eat him alive and Eliot can’t help but wish it would. 

“You ready?” Quinn asks, softly, knowing exactly how stupid a question that is, but he still can’t help asking, because part of him wants Eliot to say no, because he’s dreading what he’s about to do, which might seem strange, when a goodly chunk of his job is inflicting pain. That’s different, and he knows Eliot would agree, because hunting someone who can’t protect themselves, who’s already down, is a whole other thing to a fairly matched fight with someone able to throw a punch back. Eliot isn’t someone who usually needs protection- of the _physical_ kind, anyway, because even injured and bleeding, he keeps taking the punishment. Hell, the first time they met, he broke the man’s ribs, thought it would put him down, and in the end, he’d been the one unconscious and bleeding on the warehouse floor. 

He shakes himself out of his thoughts, knowing he’s just trying to delay, and grabs a pair of gloves, finding the vial of morphine and a syringe, drawing up a dose and crossing to the bed. 

Eliot watches him with exhausted eyes in a pale, drawn face, and blinks at Quinn, one corner of his mouth quirking up into a bone weary smile. “Gotta be done,” he says, voice filled with grit and stone and sawdust, so it comes out of him in a harsh rasp. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay,” he adds, softly, and Quinn is honestly not sure which one of them the words are intended for, because they feel like a blessing, a moment of grace he’s not sure that he deserves. His path to the place he’s in now was different to Eliot’s, vastly, and if Eliot’s hands are bloodstained, his are blood soaked. Get a fucking grip, you've got more important things to do than dwell on this maudlin shit, he thinks and drops down into the wooden dining chair next to the bed. 

Eliot's hair is sticking to his face in damp curls, and he shoves it back, irritably, with his better arm, fighting off another chill that makes him clench his jaw so his teeth won't chatter. He's too hot and too cold at the same time and the strange, slow nausea is back, there, enough to make him even more miserable but not enough to make him worry he's going to actually vomit. He eases over onto his side, curling an arm around one of the pillows. 

Quinn meets Eliot's eyes and the other man nods, once, so Quinn frees his arm from the blankets and slowly injects the morphine through the IV. 

It spreads through Eliot like benevolent fire, scorching everything else out of him, leaving behind a balm of warmth that's soothing, lulling him and he gives in, closes his eyes and lets himself float away on it. 

Quinn watches the awful tension drain out of Eliot's face and eases his leg out from under the blankets, keeping him as covered as he can, because the fever hasn't broken and probably won't until the antibiotics clear the infection. He grabs the trauma shears, snipping through the bandage rather than trying to remove it, hoping to keep the jostling of the damaged limb to a minimum, wanting to cause Eliot as little pain as possible. He drops the bandage to the wooden floor, grabbing a bottle of sterile saline wash, because the dressing pad has stuck to the wound. Eliot twitches as he works one edge free, lip curling a little, but he relaxes back into unconsciousness when Quinn freezes. It has to come off, so he keeps working at it until it peels free and he can drop it into the trash. 

The wound is ugly, scabbed over, the surrounding skin puffy and dark with bruising. He grabs a swab and soaks it with saline, wiping away the blood and serum that coat the injury. Even through his gloves, he can feel the heat coming from the infected flesh, knows just how tender it must be through his own bitter experience. He presses down a little, opening the wound and Eliot flinches. 

"Please," Eliot breathes, thigh muscle jumping, good hand clenching around the sheet so hard his knuckles show stark white. 

Quinn had kept the morphine on the conservative side, debates giving more and decides against it when he checks Eliot's pulse, which is weaker and less regular than he'd like. His breathing is already ragged and Quinn just isn't willing to take that risk. They have Naloxone on hand, but that's not a risk free solution, either. 

The scent of mocha suddenly filters into the room and Quinn bolts for the door, catching Parker just as she's going to ground in the other bedroom again. 

"Get in here," he says, tone brooking no argument and she turns, walking towards him like he's taking her to her execution. "You know what's going on?" Quinn asks, deliberately gentling his tone because her eyes are still red and she looks as exhausted as he feels. 

"Yes," she says, making the word small and he gets an irrational desire to find who hurt her and make them feel the same way. 

He tucks it away, for now, and nods. "Good. He's having a hard time with the fever and what I'm doing and he really needs a friend. Can you do that?"

"I'm not sure he still cons-" she starts and he lifts a hand, cutting her off. 

"Stop it," he doesn't quite snap the words, but he can hear the impatience in his own voice and she seems to shrink, arms wrapping around herself. "Stop it," he says, more gently. "He's not angry with you. He's blaming himself and it's all a moot point right now because he's half out of his mind with the fever. Just hold his hand, give him something to hang on to, please?"

She blinks and a tear escapes, trickling down her cheek. He wants to wipe it away, but his hands are covered in blood and worse. "I can do that," she says softly and swipes her face, setting her cup on the floor before she crosses to the bed, settling down gently next to Eliot. As careful as she is, the mattress shifts under her weight and he frowns, face tensing as he eases his eyes open. 

"Parker?" he asks unevenly. "I thought you'd gone," he says and the aching sorrow in the words is enough to send a fresh wave of tears down her cheeks. 

"I'm not going anywhere," she says and wraps her fingers around his hand, poking him very gently on the forearm with her other hand. "Just hang onto me and we'll get through this." 

Quinn settles back on the chair, picking up the set of plastic tweezers and steeling himself, because this is going to be one of the worst bits. The old packing needs to be removed so he can wash out the wound again and repack it. He finds the edge of the packaging and teases it out with the tweezers, tugging it free from the injury. 

Eliot moans, low and hurt, fingers tightening around Parker's. "Fuck," he mutters, voice hoarse with the pain, feeling a cold sweat break out over his face as Quinn keeps pulling, easing the packing free. A gush of dark blood follows it and he wipes it away, packing a few towels around Eliot's leg and grabbing a big needless syringe, filling it with saline and flushing the wound. 

Parker runs her fingers through his hair, rubs gentle circles on his temple, trying not to see the tears clumping his lashes. 

It helps, giving him a sensation he can cling to against the pain as Quinn flushes the wound, over and over. Eliot can hear the strain in his own breathing, and turns his head, leaning a little harder on Parker, wishing it would all just stop, because he's honestly not sure how much more he can take. 

"Sorry, El," Quinn mutters and eases his finger into the wound, checking as best he can that there's nothing still trapped inside. Something rasps against his fingertip and he eases it free, finding a tiny scrap of denim. He wipes it on a square of gauze and goes back in, resting his free hand on Eliot's knee when the other man's leg jumps, muscles trembling like he'd run away if he had the strength. 

"Please," Eliot rasps, the word harsh, strained through his teeth, like it tastes of poison, and Quinn swallows hard, hands stilling, because he knows exactly what it takes to get a person to sound like that. Knows just how far past their limit they have to be to sound like that. It turns his stomach sour and he has to force himself to continue. 

Parker presses her forehead to Eliot's, both of his hands clenched in hers, like she's a lifeline and he's adrift on a storm tossed sea. "Are you done?" she asks Quinn, voice thick and sad and broken. 

"Almost," Quinn promises. "Not much more," he adds, and the words are for all of them, because the sooner this is over, the better for everyone. He grabs a pack of sterile gauze and soaks it. "Take a deep breath," he warns Eliot, because what he has to do next is going to be agonising and there's no good way around it. 

He eases the packing into the wound, feeling the muscles in Eliot's leg jump and twitch and spasm in protest. He's silent, entire body clenched like a held breath, until that stillness breaks as Quinn adds more packing. 

" _Fuck_ ," Eliot grates out the word raw and gutteral and shattered, "Fuck, _please_." He can barely even recognise his own voice, barely feel anything past the supernova in his leg burning him alive. 

"Almost done," Parker whispers, leaning close again, her tears dripping on his face, mixing with his own. "Just hang onto me. It's almost over," she promises. 

He drags in a ragged breath, teeth chattering even though he's being roasted alive. The room swoops in a sickening way so he closes his eyes, feeling his heart hammering in his chest like it wants to escape. Spit floods his mouth and he chokes it back, ignoring the way it makes his stomach roll. Parker rubs gentle circles on his cheek, his shoulder and he realises belatedly that his head is resting on her thigh, the fingers on his good hand curled around her calf. 

"Last bit," Quinn says and places the final bit of packing, trying to ignore the keening cry it rips out of Eliot as he covers the whole mess with wound cream and a thick dressing, tugging the blood and saline soaked towels out of the way so he can bandage Eliot's leg, working as quickly as he can. He fastens the bandage and grabs a couple of spare pillows, easing them under Eliot's legs, knowing he's going to be shocky. 

"You did great, Eliot," Quinn says, then shakes his head when he realises unconsciousness has finally claimed the other man. He meets Parker's eyes, seeing the horror there, and forces a grim smile. "Let's hope that we don't have to do that again." 


End file.
